The Days of Bruce Vol 1 eBook

About this time an event occurred, which, though comparatively
trifling in itself, when the lives of so many were
concerned, was fraught in effect with fatal consequences
to all the inmates of Kildrummie. The conversation
of the next chapter, however, will better explain it,
and to it we refer our readers.

CHAPTER XIX

In a circular apartment of the lower floor in Kildrummie
keep, its stone floor but ill covered with rushes,
and the walls hung with the darkest and rudest arras,
Sir Christopher Seaton reclined on a rough couch, in
earnest converse with his brother-in-law, Nigel.
Lady Seaton was also within the chamber, at some little
distance from the knights, engaged in preparing lint
and healing ointments, with the aid of an attendant,
for the wounded, and ready at the first call to rise
and attend them, as she had done unremittingly during
the continuance of the siege. The countenances
of both warriors were slightly changed from the last
time we beheld them. The severity of his wounds
had shed a cast almost of age on the noble features
of Seaton, but care and deep regret had mingled with
that pallor; and perhaps on the face of Nigel, which
three short weeks before had beamed forth such radiant
hope, the change was more painful. He had escaped
with but slight flesh wounds, but disappointment and
anxiety were now vividly impressed on his features;
the smooth brow would unconsciously wrinkle in deep
and unexpressed thought; the lip, to which love, joy,
and hope alone had once seemed natural, now often
compressed, and his eye flashed, till his whole countenance
seemed stern, not with the sternness of a tyrannical,
changed and chafing mood—­no, ’twas
the sternness most fearful to behold in youth, of
thought, deep, bitter, whelming thought; and sterner
even than it had been yet was the expression on his
features as he spoke this day with Seaton.

“He must die,” were the words which broke
a long and anxious pause, and fell in deep yet emphatic
tones from the lips of Seaton; “yes, die!
Perchance the example may best arrest the spreading
contagion of treachery around us.”

“I know not, I fear not; yet as thou sayest
he must die,” replied Nigel, speaking as in
deep thought; “would that the noble enemy, who
thus scorned to benefit by the offered treason, had
done on him the work of death himself. I love
not the necessity nor the deed.”

“Yet it must be, Nigel. Is there aught
else save death, the death of a traitor, which can
sufficiently chastise a crime like this? Well
was it the knave craved speech of Hereford himself.
I marvel whether the majesty of England had resisted
a like temptation.”

“Seaton, he would not,” answered the young
man. “I knew him, aye, studied him in his
own court, and though I doubt not there was a time
when chivalry was strongest in the breast of Edward,
it was before ambition’s fatal poison had corroded
his heart. Now he would deem all things honorable
in the art of war, aye, even the delivery of a castle
through the treachery of a knave.”